


Of Leaves of Gold and Thorns of Midnight

by Mertiya



Series: The Hand of the Mighty [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, He's Trying but he's not there yet, Melkor is predictably homicidal, Rare Pairings, Romantic Fluff, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, all the thuri/galadriel stuff is sweet, but let me add some tags for the mairon/melkor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25672255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya
Summary: The Elves are holing up in a new fortress; Mairon is trying to take on his old duties; and Thuringwethil is sulky and weak to beautiful women.  Enter Galadriel.
Relationships: Galadriel/Thuringwethil, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Series: The Hand of the Mighty [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858411
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48





	Of Leaves of Gold and Thorns of Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StubHub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StubHub/gifts).



> Thuri's characterization in this is loosely inspired by a combination of her appearance in Harp_of_Gold's Build Up A New Us (https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806742) and the fact that I can't get the idea of giving her smol bat mannerisms out of my head. (NO! STOP TOUCHING ME! I AM FIRE! I AM DEATH!)
> 
> Edit/Update: With thanks to moiety for helping me straighten out my Elven names.

Thuringwethil was sulking. Of course, she understood that Lord Mairon had been through some incredible hardships, and it was only to be expected that he would be a bit bad-tempered. And of course she was also very happy that he was doing well enough now to be able to take on many of his former duties. She just thought that maybe a single ‘thank you’ in the middle of the hour-long lecture about how she had done absolutely all of the extremely extra work that she had offered to do out of the kindness of her heart _wrong_ was warranted. Perhaps from Lord Melkor, if Lord Mairon wasn’t feeling up to it.

She sniffed—in irritation, of course she wasn’t crying, and she let the wind beneath her wings buoy her up a little higher. She wasn’t really on patrol—of course she wasn’t really on patrol, as Lord Mairon was still entirely redoing the patrol rosters—but she thought she might as well help guard the realm. Make herself useful. Even if that was _clearly_ not desired.

She wasn’t really expecting to see anything, so when she caught sight of a small band of Elves on the road, she was so startled she nearly fell out of the sky. What were they _doing_ here? She ought to go back and tell Lord Melkor right this instant. But—curiosity got the better of her. They were right at the edge of the kingdom, and there weren’t enough of them to be a proper war party or anything. Besides, she was very definitely not officially on patrol, which meant she could use her own discretion, and her own discretion was curious.

There was an elf woman leading them, a tall, beautiful elf woman, clad in sparkling mail and with a diamond circlet set upon her fair brow. Thuringwethil nearly forgot to flap her wings for a moment at the sight of her. After a moment of struggling to breathe, she called out to the little group—it didn’t seem to be more than perhaps twenty Elves, so she thought it unlikely to be a raiding party of any sort. “You! Children of Ilúvatar! You trespass upon the lands of the Lords of the North!” Perhaps she ought not to be pluralizing, but Lords Melkor and Mairon were certainly going to be married by the time the year was out, or she was going to lose a bet with Gothmog, so she felt that it was perfectly reasonable of her to get a head start.

The elf woman held up her hand, calling a halt to the procession. “You have my apology, herald of the Lords of the North,” she said, which was so remarkably polite for an elf that Thuringwethil actually winged down out of the sky to converse with her face to face. She slipped off her cloak and stood—and then realized immediately her error, because in this elf-like form she only reached up to the elf woman’s shoulders. Why, oh, why was she such a _runt_? She blamed her mother, really, for not killing her at birth.

Up close, the little band was even more ragtag. They looked unutterably weary and at least half of them were injured, leaning one upon the other, elven blood seeping from white bandages. The woman who led them had fine lines about her eyes, which were utterly beautiful, like little cracks in a teacup, but not what one expected from an elf lady of high stature.

“We did not realize we had strayed into your territory,” the woman continued. “We are weary and in search of a home, for our kinsfolk have gone mad and would build a fortress around themselves to keep the light in.”

Mairon and Melkor would probably be quite, quite livid if she let the elves stay, but technically, there was a forest nearby that was, technically, not within their borders, at least not the last time she had drawn up the maps for her schedules. It was a nice little forest, lit by starlight and full of cool water and mushrooms and game, not perhaps as ragged and wild as the rest of Arda. “I know of a place you could stay,” she blurted out rashly. “Only you must be very careful and not be…” she paused, trying to think of how to phrase it, “not be too _loudly_ Elvish.”

Although she was so clearly weary, the woman’s eyes sparkled, and she laughed a bell-like laugh. “Not too _loudly_ Elvish? I think we can contain our singing for a time. On behalf of my brothers and sisters, I thank you for your hospitality. I am Artanis of the Noldor, daughter of Arafinwe.”

Thuringwethil felt very small and grubby beside the elegant beauty of the lady before her. “I’m, um, Thuringwethil,” she managed. “I’m not really anybody. I’m a vampire. You can call me Thuri.”

A ravishing smile was turned on her. _Oh, Melkor,_ Thuringwethil thought, _Mairon is going to kill me_.

~

“What, or who, are you mooning over now, Thuri?” Gothmog asked.

Thuringwethil jumped. She had been collecting some food and a bit of halfway decent wine in a basket from the kitchens. “N-Nothing! No one! I just thought I would like to go out for a long trip, since I’m still not on the patrol roster.”

Gothmog’s vaguely bull-like face wore an expression of remarkable skepticism. “You don’t even like wine, Thuri. But you always take it when you’re trying to win someone over.”

“I do not!”

“Ashnaug, Vitgut, that self-proclaimed ‘fairy princess’ who turned out to be a moth, the bat who was _an actual bat_ …”

“Shut up!” Thuringwethil set down the basket, crossed her arms, and looked back at him. “All right, I know I haven’t always been very good at courting.”

A very long, heavy sigh. Then Gothmog raised both large hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just…don’t do anything stupid, please?”

“Stupid? I’m not doing anything stupid!” _Except courting an Elf on our borders_. “Nothing stupid here.”

Gothmog sighed heavily. “All right, I know that tone of voice. Just don’t get _caught_ , Thuri, _please_. Mairon has enough to deal with right now. Also, take a sweet wine. That one isn’t going to get you anywhere near a lady’s bed.”

“Oh, like you’d know,” Thuringwethil retorted rudely. But she looked back into the cupboards and picked out a different wine.

~

“You’re inviting me out for a picnic?” Artanis quirked one gorgeous eyebrow upward in an amused manner.

“If you’d like, my lady?” Thuringwethil tried not to sound too hopeful. A picnic beneath the stars—surely that would be to the taste of any elf, not the least such a great yet down to earth lady as Artanis?

She couldn’t read the look that flickered across Artanis's face. The Elven lady paused for a long, heart-stopping second. “Yes, all right,” she said. “You have been very helpful, Thuri, and I am grateful to you.” Thuringwethil’s heart, which had soared at the agreement, plummeted again, but she kept a smile on her face somehow. “And…” A mischievous light shone in Artanis's eyes, “who am I to say no to the request of a beautiful lady?”

Thuringwethil just barely stopped herself from making a embarrassing squeaky noise, and instead held out an arm, like a proper lady, for Artanis to take. They made their way through the new settlement, which Thuringwethil was relieved to see was not terribly visible. They had started weaving shelters from some of the living saplings, and they were clearly starting to cultivate mushrooms, but their fires were small and mostly hidden beneath the canopy. Thuringwethil might have spotted them from the air, but she doubted almost anyone else would have done so.

She took Artanis out to the silvery fields beyond the woods, where thin white flowers grew on silvery stalks, and where the starlight above illuminated everything. She set the basket down beside a chuckling, melodious little stream, and spread the blanket out on the grass. Artanis seemed a little bemused, but she sat and let Thuringwethil unpack the bread and cheese, wine and fruit that she had brought.

“I am afraid I know little of the customs of your people,” she said gently, as Thuringwethil offered her wine in a sparkling golden goblet that she had definitely not spirited out of Mairon’s forge. “Tell me, Thuri, is this a friendly gesture or is it something more?” She did take the wine.

Thuringwethil’s face burned as she looked down at her own thin hands, twining about one another. “I…would like it to be something more?” she said hopefully. “But I understand if you do not want it to be. I don’t know much about Elves, either, I thought you were all kinslayers and—and—lord mutilators.” Gothmog would probably chide her for bringing that up, and she put a hand to her mouth as she realized that she might just have entirely undermined her own cause.

Artanis laughed, her silvery laughter warming Thuringwethil right down to the cockles of her cold heart. “You are a lovely woman, Thuri, and I will try to put aside my prejudices if you will do the same.” Then she sobered. “What my uncle did to your lord—it was wrong. I will not make excuses for him. His desire for the Silmarils has driven him to madness.”

“Oh…” Thuringwethil’s face scrunched up. “I understand. They did that to Lord Melkor, too. Lord Mairon wept when he returned because he seemed to care nothing for him any longer. All of us were so angry. But then he gave the Silmarils back and now he’s Lord Melkor again.”

“Unfortunately, I do not believe there is any such succor for my uncle,” Artanis sighed. “I wish you could have known him when he was young, before…everything.” Her hand tightened about the cup she held as she sipped the wine thoughtful. “I have no love for Melkor,” she said quietly. “With his honeyed words he tricked Fëanor, and then he betrayed him. But your Lord Mairon owes him fealty, and Fëanor was wrong to brutalize him as he did.”

Thuringwethil sniffed, brushing the tears away from her face. She always looked horribly ugly when she cried, and she was sure that this was the worst possible conversation to have at a romantic dinner. But she couldn’t help it. “It broke him,” she whispered. “He’s…he’s getting better now—” If he yelled at her one more time about those damn schedules, she might punt him out a window. “But for months, we thought he was lost. That the loss of his hand had destroyed him.”

Artanis reached out and took Thuringwethil’s hand, and Thuringwethil blinked up in confusion. The elf lady was smiling, a smile tinged with sadness, as she squeezed the little vampire’s hand. “We both share a sorrow,” she said gently. “It is better than sorrowing alone.”

“I never really thought of it like that.” Thuringwethil gave her a hesitant smile. “I like that.”

“Now, with dark conversations out of the way, perhaps we had better see to the more cheerful business of eating food,” Artanis said. “Do…you eat food? Or can vampires only subsist on blood?”

“I did not bring you here to _bleed_ you!” Thuringwethil said hotly. “I can’t eat solid bread and cheese very well and I don’t like wine, but I love fruit.”

“I did not think you had brought me here to bleed me,” Artanis responded mildly. “For one, it would be exceedingly foolish of you, as I think you know, for I am more than capable of defending myself. I only asked because I did not know if I would be eating alone.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” _Oh, wonderfully done, Thuri_ , Gothmog’s voice said in her head. “I am not very good at courting,” she confessed, a little ruefully.

Artanis gave her a soft, small smile that thrilled her to her core. “Then I suppose you need some practice.” With deft fingers, she unwrapped a pile of little berries that Thuringwethil had picked herself that morning. She lifted one and held it out to Thuri. 

“You want me to—?”

“Go ahead, little one. Eat.” Those long silver lashes beat for an instant, casting subtle shadows down along the tops of her cheeks. Thuri’s heart almost burst out of her chest, but she leaned forward and took the fruit delicately between her lips. Artanis's fingertips brushed her lips for a moment, and her cheeks felt as if she had suddenly been dumped into a bathtub of lava.

“May I…may I feed you, too, lady?” she asked, and Artanis's smile widened.

“Very well,” she said. “I like the way you always ask for permission, Thuringwethil. It’s kind.”

“I am not kind, I am bloodthirsty,” Thuringwethil retorted. “But that does not mean I cannot be polite!”

“Indeed, you prove that most truly,” Artanis said gayly. “Will you feed me some bread, perhaps? Then a little wine?”

They went on like this for some time, inching closer and closer together across the blanket until Thuringwethil was very nearly in Artanis's lap. She looked up at Artanis and found that, somehow, their hands had laced together again, their fingers intertwining. “I should let you know,” Thuringwethil said in a high, alarmed voice that she thought probably sounded horribly ridiculous. “I’ve never actually kissed anyone. But I wanted to ask if I could please kiss you?”

“You may, little one,” Artanis breathed, and the touch of her lips on Thuri’s sent the universe spinning on its axis.

~

She returned to the fortress with her hair mussed, her heart singing, and her entire body tingling. Artanis was as beautiful as the stars. No—she was as beautiful as the Lamps of Arda had been, but far stronger. This was the best day of Thuringwethil’s life. She saw an endless parade of picnics laid out before her, and Artanis's slim white form laughing beneath the sky.

She slipped into the forge to replace the goblet. A bright fire was roaring in the hearth, but the room seemed empty, so she felt quite confident as she strode towards the center—and then a very familiar voice cleared its throat behind her, and a single hand landed on her arm with a grip of iron. “Thuringwethil, _what have you done now_?” demanded Mairon.

“N-Nothing! My lord! I was just cleaning your cup!”

“You have been gone the whole afternoon,” Mairon said tightly. “And you took wine out of the kitchens, and I am not aware of any nearby lovely ladies for you to be doting on this time. So tell me—who is she?”

“No one!” Thuringwethil chirped desperately. Mairon’s eyes widened, and he plucked something from her hair, holding it up to the light. A single, golden strand of hair that shone and twinkled in the firelight.

“Oh, Thuri,” he breathed. “You fool. Where is she? If Melkor finds out—”

“She’s not on our lands,” Thuringwethil croaked. “They’re just in the woods over the border, but they’re _allowed_ to be there, no one can say they’re not allowed to be there—”

“You mean the borders you drew onto the maps with a complete disregard for where anything is _actually located_?” hissed Mairon. “All right. We can fix this. We’ll simply need to clear them out and send them somewhere else—”

“Please, Lord Mairon, no, I can’t send her away—”

Mairon’s countenance tightened. “Have you forgotten what those Elves did?” he asked, his voice suddenly going soft, silken, dangerous.

“She didn’t! She said she thought it was awful, what her uncle di—”

“ _Her uncle_?”

Oh, this was not going well. “Lord Mairon, please, if you would just listen to me.”

Mairon opened his mouth once again, and Thuringwethil wasn’t sure if he was going to listen or if he was going to chastise her more, but before he had a chance to say anything, the entire fortress rocked with the sound of cry of rage. A very familiar one.

~

“Slaughter them all!” raged Melkor. “Execute that traitorous vampire!”

“My lord,” Mairon said, carefully. He was standing protectively in front of Thuri, who was cowering on the ground in bat form, her wings over her head. “Thuringwethil is not a traitor.” _An idiot, quite possibly_.

“I will have them all gutted and hung from the walls of Angband!” roared Melkor. “Including her! Starting now! Stand _aside_ , Lieutenant!”

Mairon felt that the entire situation was most unfair. _He_ was the injured party, and here he was, having to try to talk Melkor down from immediately killing everyone, because Thuringwethil had not seen fit to confide in him, and Gothmog had let slip mere perilous hints of what she might be up to. This was not the way he would have wanted to start out taking on his old duties. Thuringwethil sobbed miserably behind him. “Please don’t hurt Artanis!” she whimpered. “If I must be punished, I will accept whatever punishment is necessary, but she has done nothing wrong other than flee from her mad uncle and try to find a place for her people to live in safety!”

His heart constricted at her words. _Oh, no, Thuri_. He had thought this a dalliance—unadvised but understandable. But her simple offer to take all punishment on herself—Thuringwethil had a healthy sense of self-preservation, and that could only mean that her feelings for this elf already ran deep. Mairon hated when he had to be the sensible one, particularly now, when his missing right hand nevertheless still _ached_ , when he still spent hours hopelessly sobbing over the forge, feeling that he would never again reach the level of creation that had ever been his before.

“I will have them all _flayed_ ,” Melkor hissed, and the sudden quietness of his voice was more fearful than all the raging in the world. “I _will_ have satisfaction, and if I cannot pluck Fëanáro himself from inside whatever fortress he has built up, I will strip the skin from his niece and send it to him, just as—”

“ _My lord_.” Mairon stepped forward, putting one hand on Melkor’s shoulder, and with the other, holding up his own poor stump. “Which of us is it who has lost his hand?”

Melkor’s eyes flashed, but he took Mairon’s wrist inexpressibly gently, running his thumb over it. “Both of us, Little Flame.” Then his gaze hardened. “And I will see them punished for it. All of them.”

There was really only one argument left, which Mairon hated to make, and would not have done for anyone else in the world but Thuri or Gothmog. “And who was it, Lord, who stole the Silmarils? Who whispered in Fëanáro's ear and then plucked away that which was most precious to him? Perhaps you should look to their punishment first of all.”

The words fell, raw and painful, into the center of the chamber, and Mairon immediately wanted to recall them. Too far, even for him. Behind him, Thuringwethil gasped; Mairon’s heart constricted in his chest at the look on Melkor’s face. For a moment, he thought Melkor was going to strike him, but it passed, and then his lord’s countenance went still and motionless as ice or glass; he turned and strode from the chamber. Mairon went to his knees and took the sobbing Thuringwethil into his arms. She leaned against his chest, crying, repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He petted her hair with his one remaining hand. “I know, Thuri. I know.”

~

It was cold and dark in Melkor’s chambers. He had never seen Angband in the light of something brighter than the stars. He had not even spent so much time here, really. But was it surprising? He was born of darkness and destruction, born to _bring_ darkness and decay. As Mairon was fond of reminding him, he had smashed the Lamps of Arda himself. But had he not paid in full for that crime, if you believed in that kind of justice? Melkor did not. Manwë’s _justice_ was as hollow as Ilúvatar’s creation.

A wave of ice-cold anger overtook him, and he turned and swept his arm across the bedside table, sending everything on it to the stone floor to shatter. It gave him a moment of pleasure, and then he realized that among the things he had swept off was the golden goblet that Mairon had started to make the first day he had woken from his long…sleep. Pain stabbed Melkor’s lungs as he knelt hurriedly on the floor.

A heavy book had landed directly on it, and the delicate gold was half crushed. Melkor went to his knees beside it, lifting it and looking at it. It had been mended once; could it be mended again? Mairon would know; goldsmithing was a craft too much about delicacy and patience for Melkor to have much truck with it. 

He turned the cup over and over in his hands. Crushed and broken. Like the Lamps. Like Mairon. He could kill every elf in Arda, every elf in Valinor, and still it would not restore what had been taken from his most precious possession. He had spent three long ages captive in the void of Mandos, chained, in pain, and nothing of that punishment had ever hurt as much as Mairon’s sobs when he realized what would not be restored to him, not through flame nor fire nor magic.

The Silmarils had burned away so much of him: so much of his power, even parts of his memory. He had thought only of vengeance while he lay in Mandos. He had not thought of his most loyal servant, whose heart still burned for him. He had not thought at all. Was not vengeance his due? And there lay the golden cup smashed, and there, in his bed at night, lay his lieutenant, sobbing quietly. And that was what his vengeance had accomplished, in the end.

Part of him wanted to punish Mairon for his words. Part of him wanted to punish himself, as Mairon had said. In the end, he rose and walked to the window, with icy anger rising inside him again. He set what remained of the cup down, flung the windows open, and turned his face upward, drawing on the ancient power that remained inside him. Cloud piled upon cloud, rumbling with contained fury, and when he opened his palm, the fury was no longer contained.

Wind howled and lightning flashed. Thunder roared and hail beat against the earth with his fury. The earth would be unmoved; the fortress would stand, but flowers would be crushed and broken, tree branches snapped and trees blown over. More destruction, and he reveled in it, as he had since first his ability to do otherwise was taken from him. And yet—he still had created, cleverly, with Mairon at his side. Twisting the fair, fading life of Arda into new, hardier forms: mushrooms, orcs, algae. With an angry growl, he slammed his fist against the wall and then pressed his forehead against the cool stone.

Someone knocked on the door. “What?!” Melkor snarled, then paused. If it was Mairon—

“My lord?” Gothmog’s voice, steady as an anchor, but the anger had already bled out, leaving Melkor cold and weary.

“Come in.”

“I came to speak with you about Thuringwethil, my lord.” Gothmog bowed his huge head, the everpresent flame and shadow flickering about his form.

Melkor responded with a grunt, not sure whether he had anything else to say. The balrog seemed to take this as encouragement. “She is not always good at following orders or conveying her plans when she ought to, lord, but I assure you she is no traitor. You have heard of the fortress the Elves are building in the Ered Engrin?”

“How many times have I heard a lecture on this very subject?” grumbled Melkor. “Yes, of course. Get to the point.”

“She has welcomed this band of elves with honeyed words and a place to stay because that way she may find out what they know of the others.”

It did make sense. So much sense, indeed, that Melkor wondered why Mairon had not said so—true or not, it was a fine excuse. Learning what these elves knew, what Fëanáro's niece knew—there was value in that. And could it not be a finer vengeance against Fëanáro if they _befriended_ his niece? Melkor nodded. “Tell Thuringwethil to continue her labors,” he said shortly. He paused. “Tell her…I am sorry for the misunderstanding.” He paused. “But privately. Or I’ll have you flayed.”

Was that a flicker of a smile at the corner of the balrog’s lips? “Of course, my lord.”

~

“So…so it’s all right?” Thuringwethil asked Gothmog timidly.

“You’re a fool, Thuri,” he told her, very gently. “This business of courting an Elf—I don’t like it, but if it’s what you want, then we’ll make it work. But you should have told Mairon and me, because we would have helped you approach it very differently.”

“I thought…how could I tell Mairon?” She hunched her shoulders together. “Besides, I was angry that he threw me out.”

“Yes, well, Thuri, we both love you, but he’s having a hard time right now, and you really are not very good with organization.”

She sighed. “I know,” she muttered. “Truly, I think Artanis will tell me if I ask her. She’s really nice, for an elf.”

“Do not say that near Lord Mairon or Lord Melkor,” Gothmog cautioned. “If you are pressed, you should say that she is besotted with you and would do anything for you. When Mairon is—” he sighed. “There will be time for more subtleties later, when Lord Mairon’s—health—is improved.”

“Yes, captain,” she replied with a slight smile. “Thank you. Thank you for fixing everything.”

“I would that I had,” murmured Gothmog, but he reached out and ruffled her hair. “Go seduce your elf, bat.”

“Do not call me that,” grumbled Thuringwethil. “And—and I shall.”

~

Artanis met the little vampire again under the silver stars, with the wind whispering a haunting little melody. Thuringwethil seemed smaller than ever, her little dark form silhouetted by the ever-present lucid twilight, but she was a very solid little figure.

“I did not know if you were coming back,” Artanis said to her, from the branch of the tree where she had been sitting and watching the sky. She had wondered if they were too different: herself, a creature of light and song, and Thuri, a creature of dark and silence. But here in Arda beneath the stars there was neither true light nor true dark, so perhaps it was a fitting rendezvous.

“I had some trouble, I’m afraid.” She pulled her cloak about her, and her form wavered and dwindled into a large black bat that fluttered up to the tree. Then she let the cloak fall again and sat in elvin form beside Artanis. “I did not do things…well.” She looked down, her dark face pinched with some sorrow, and Artanis put out a hand and touched hers.

“Share with me?” she asked quietly.

“I am supposed to seduce you.” Thuringwethil looked up, scrunching her nose in that endearing way that made Artanis question everything she had ever been taught about vampires and evil and disharmony. “My masters want to know what the Elves are doing up in Ered Engrin, and they believe that if I can make myself very pleasing to you that you will tell me.”

Artanis laughed and then sighed. “I would like to be a good neighbor,” she said, kicking her legs thoughtfully. “And I do not know much, but what I know I will tell you freely.”

“Ah…about that…” Thuringwethil kicked her own feet and stared down. “I may have been wrong about this woods being _outside_ my lords’ territory. Um. But I think they would be amenable to a treaty. If I can seduce you and get you to tell me everything you know.”

“I have just said I will tell you freely,” Artanis pointed out in amusement. She liked the bewildered frustration that formed on Thuringwethil’s face.

“But…” The vampire blew out her breath. “Must you?” she finished up pleadingly, and Artanis could not contain her mirth at all.

“If it means so much to you to seduce me, by all means,” she said, tweaking Thuri’s comely nose and then sliding her hand through that fluffy black hair. “You are by far the most goodhearted creature of darkness I have ever had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of,” she continued.

Thuri gave her a quite shocked look. “I am not!” she said hotly. “I am terribly evil and blackhearted and will definitely seduce you to my wicked ways.” She gave Artanis a coy look and turned her face so that she was able to kiss the inside of her wrist. “Although none of us have actually done much torturing or destruction in several hundred centuries or so,” she admitted after a moment.

Artanis took a little time to process this, because she was absorbed with the sensation of cool lips on her wrist. “Is—is that so?” she managed. “Nonetheless, I apologize for impugning your honor.” She drew Thuri closer, pulling the smaller woman right into her lap so that she could slide a hand up that thin, lithe back, rather daringly.

The lips withdrew from her wrist and Thuri gave her a look from her black eyes that promised a thousand thousand things that Artanis was sure were _some_ version of dark, but perhaps not unpleasant. Then she leaned forward and began to kiss Artanis's throat. “I won’t bite,” she murmured in Artanis's ear. “Promise. Not unless—” her breath hitched. “Not unless you _ask_ me to.”

“We should—” Artanis's breath hitched in her throat. “We should take this to the ground. I do not have wings to catch me when I fall out of this tree.”

~

Thuringwethil had not been sure what to expect of sex. She knew with Lord Mairon and Lord Melkor, it was a very bloody affair, violent and painful, although it seemed to work all right for them. She had somehow gotten the idea that for Elves it would be very serious, very slow, and very sweet.

Inside Artanis's tent with Artanis's hands over her eyes, Artanis's soft breasts pressed into her naked back, and Artanis's silvery laughter in her ear, she wasn’t sure _what_ to think anymore. This definitely wasn’t violence, and it wasn’t serious or particularly slow. It was, she had to admit, quite sweet, or probably would be, if she could just turn around enough to get her _mouth_ on those lovely pert breasts.

She whined as the elf woman nibbled on an ear, and she reached back to slide her hand along swelling, round hips. “Patience,” giggled Artanis.

“I am the swift death that hides in darkness!” protested Thuringwethil. “I am the loyal servant of my master who rebels against goodness itself, I am not virtuous, and I am _certainly_ not patient!” The last bit came out as a whine, and she felt slim fingers dancing down her stomach and across her thighs.

“Not patient?” sighed Artanis. “But then this will all be over so quickly.” The fingers darted downwards, and Thuringwethil gasped and jerked her hips at the sensation.

“Please,” she whined as the fingers withdrew. “Oh—don’t stop—don’t _stop_ —” But Artanis's hands teased down her inner thighs and across her knees, then up and back to her waist, trailing Thuri’s own slick wetness with them. All her nerves seemed to be on fire. She had never felt anything like this before. Then Artanis's hands cupped her breasts and tweaked her nipples, and Thuri’s world seemed to invert with pleasure. “Let me _touch_ you,” she begged, with a degree of abasement towards an Elf that she probably ought to have been ashamed of. She wasn’t, but at least she spent time thinking that she _should_ have been.

“All right.” Artanis's easy acquiescence made Thuri’s head swim with wonder and lust. She swiveled herself around clumsily and promptly buried her face in Artanis's stomach, trailing her lips up Artanis's satin skin and listening to _her_ voice turning breathy as she gasped and moaned. She paused to lavish attention on those perfect breasts, licking and suckling at the nipples until Artanis hooked an ankle behind her and pulled her closer, caught her hands in Thuri’s hair and combed them through and through. They caught in snarls here and there, but the feeling was a shivering, huge one, punctuated by the occasional pinprick of pain, and it made heat throb between her legs.

She clambered up into Artanis's lap so she could rut against her—it wasn’t enough, but it was _closeness_ , skin to skin, her breasts pressed into Artanis's. Timidly, she mantled one hand through Artanis's hair—shining silver in the starlight—and Artanis laughed again (because she was always laughing, Thuri thought, and it was the most beautiful sound and she wanted to hear it forever and always)—and pressed her lips to Thuri’s. The kiss deepened and deepened, and Thuri whined and sobbed and thought she might break from the pleasure.

She moved one hand down to fondle Artanis's breast, and Artanis moaned into her mouth, pulling her closer. Daringly, Thuri let her hand drop farther, sliding it along Artanis's inner thigh, but pausing before she could touch the treasure between her legs. “C-Can I?” she stammered.

“Yes,” purred Artanis. “I’m glad you’re asking for permission again, little one.” But her voice was light and teasing.

She was slick and warm when Thuri touched her, gently, fluttering, with two fingers. Artanis gave a soft cry and rocked against her, then put her own fingers back between Thuri’s legs. Thuri yelped and this time began to rock against them, against Artanis. They were both so close—skin to skin, rocking against one another, riding each other’s fingers, a muddled mess of vampire and elf, so muddled Thuri wasn’t even sure where she ended and Artanis began.

It was like a song, she thought distantly, like they were weaving a song with their bodies, a song about darkness and light and twilight, about the meeting of two different halves to make a unique whole, about laughter and tears and about forgiveness beyond what should have been possible. The song built and built in warmth and cold and beauty and ugliness, until Thuri didn’t think she could possibly take any more of it, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t—

The crescendo ended in a crashing chord of pleasure. Thuri felt like she was flying, her hand tangled tight in Artanis's. After a moment, she slumped in the elf’s arms, wriggling against her. “Was nice,” she mumbled. Then, cracking an eyelid, “are you properly seduced?”

The fine lines about Artanis's eyes deepened for a moment and her lips curved upward softly. “I believe I am, little one. I believe I am.”


End file.
